The wind is not nearly bracing enough tonight.
It's calming and balmy and chilly
while I sit here demanding hurricanes
and hail, the wind on fire coming to
carry me away, to burn and to purge
with sandpaper skin sailing through my window.
I've tossed and turned in every reachable sea,
made my own oceans and drowned myself in them all
before the baptism could begin.
It was a baptismal breath,
a barely palpable gasp into new being that
kept me clawing at the barricades
pushing me beneath the waves, into
catacombs crawling with spirits and spiders,
macabre reminders of dark days gone by.
The wind was silent then, is silent now.
It was lush and never lonely.
It caressed and coddled
when I needed it to throw me down,
make me its rag doll.
Tonight, with the moon dancing in the breeze,
the jigsaw pieces meandering into place,
I'm craving destruction, the human spirit
quivering to feel confusion and pain.
Feeling lost to feel found.
Cutting flesh to wrap it up.
Blowing towns to shreds to rebuild them.